by John Verdon
“Any reason in particular?” asked Gurney, his annoyance rising at Thrasher’s habit of doling out information in pieces rather than laying it all out at once.
“Midazolam is available as a syrup. Has a bitter taste. A strong, sweet liqueur might be an ideal delivery vehicle.”
“I take it there’s no chance of this being a double suicide?”
“I wouldn’t say no chance. But damn little chance.” Thrasher stepped out of the living room into the little foyer and began removing his Tyvek suit.
Gurney followed him. “By the way, I got your phone message.”
Thrasher nodded, peeling off his latex gloves.
“I’d like to know what this excavation mystery is all about,” said Gurney.
“When can we sit down and talk about it?”
“How about right now?”
Thrasher produced an unpleasant smile. “The subject is a sensitive one. This is neither the time nor the place.”
“Then pick a time and place.”
Thrasher’s smile hardened. “Your house. Tomorrow evening. I’m speaking at the annual dinner of the Forensic Pathology Association in Syracuse. I should be passing through Walnut Crossing on my way there around five.”
“I’ll see you then.”
Thrasher rolled up his Tyvek coveralls, removed his shoe covers, stuffed everything in an expensive-looking leather bag, and left without another word.
Gurney returned to Torres in the living room, intending to resume his explanation of the likely KRS website creation process, when Garrett Felder came over, smartphone in hand, obviously excited.
“Look at this!” He held up his phone so Torres and Gurney could both see the screen. It displayed side-by-side photos of two thumbprints. They appeared to be identical.
“Clean, shiny, nonporous surfaces are a godsend. Look at these prints! Like they get on TV. Perfect!”
Gurney and Torres peered at them.
“There’s no doubt these two came from the same thumb,” continued Felder. “Different time, different place. But the same thumb. Print on the left I just lifted from the plastic bag of twenties in the desk drawer. Print on the right I lifted yesterday from an alarm clock in the loft of Dell Beckert’s cabin. It also matches a bunch of prints on his furniture, his faucets, his UTV.”
“Do we know for a fact those prints in the cabin are Beckert’s?” asked Gurney.
Felder nodded. “Confirmation yesterday from AFIS—from their file of active LEO prints.”
Torres seemed taken aback. “Jackson and Creel got that money directly from Beckert?”
“We know Jackson did,” said Felder. “Her prints and Beckert’s are both on the bag.”
“You took prints from Jackson’s body?” asked Gurney.
“Quick ones. Thrasher’ll do the official set at autopsy. Anyway, I’ve got more work to do now. Just wanted to clue you in.” Felder slipped his phone through a slit in his Tyvek coverall into his pocket and headed for a hallway off the side of the living room. On the wall next to the hallway there was a poster-sized print of a famous sixties radical thrusting an iconic black power fist into the air.
A moment later Paul Aziz came out of the same hallway. He announced that he’d finished. Patting his camera affectionately, he asked if Gurney or Torres had any special requests beyond the standard crime-scene collection. Torres looked questioningly at Gurney, who said no. Aziz promised to email them photo sets the following morning and was gone.
Torres turned to Gurney with a puzzled look. “This financial connection between Dell Beckert and Blaze Jackson . . . it doesn’t seem to surprise you.”
“I’m only surprised that we found such clear evidence of it. When the hospital HR director admitted that Jackson was fired for stealing propofol hypodermics, and propofol hypodermics had been found on Beckert’s property, it was natural to suspect a connection.”
“You think the money was Beckert’s payment to her for the drugs?”
Gurney shrugged. “It would seem to be payment for something. We need to know more about what went on between them. Obviously the chief of police wouldn’t ask a leader of the BDA to steal propofol for him unless they had an established relationship.”
Torres looked baffled. “Like what?”
“There are some interesting possibilities. Remember that revelation a few years back that one of the biggest mobsters in Boston was a major FBI informant?”
Torres’s eyes widened. “You think Jackson was fingering people for Beckert?”
“We’ve heard she was ambitious and ruthless. She could have been selectively informing on people she wanted out of her way. It could have been a useful association that got deeper as time passed. It’s not inconceivable that they collaborated on the elimination of Jordan and Tooker—an outcome we’ve been told they may both have wanted for their own reasons.”
“Are you suggesting Beckert did this?” Torres gestured toward the couch.
“The guy downstairs in the lawn chair claims that a white man in a black Durango was here two nights ago—just within Thrasher’s time-of-death window.”
“Jesus,” said Torres softly.
Gurney looked over at the bottles and glasses on the table and Jackson and Creel in their party clothes. “Maybe Beckert suggested a little toast to their success.”
Torres picked up the hypothetical narrative. “The midazolam in the drinks relaxes them to the point of not knowing what’s going on. Then he injects them with fatal overdoses of propofol. And just leaves everything there, so it’ll look like a drug party gone bad.” He hesitated, frowning. “But why kill them?”
Gurney smiled. “The demon of negative projection.”
“The what?”
“Let’s assume that Beckert relied on their help to get rid of people who could cause problems for him. At least Jordan and Tooker, and probably Loomis in the hospital. But that put them in a position where they could cause even bigger problems, because of what they knew. Once he started envisioning situations in which they might roll over on him, or even try to blackmail him, that would have done it. His political future and personal safety would have been far more important to him than the lives of two potential troublemakers.”
Torres nodded slowly. “You think he might have set Turlock up? By sending him out to the gun club and letting the Gorts know he’d be there? I mean, Turlock probably knew more damaging stuff about him than anyone else on earth, and if he’d outlived his usefulness . . .”
“That would depend on Beckert being in contact with the Gorts, which—”
Torres’s phone rang. He frowned at the screen. “It’s the DA’s office.” He listened intently for a minute or two. The only sound in the apartment was the hum of Felder’s evidence vac as he ran it slowly over the rug in front of the couch.
Torres finally spoke. “Okay . . . Yes, I know the area . . . Right, it looks that way . . . I agree . . . Thank you.” He ended the call and turned to Gurney. “That was the woman in Kline’s office who’s taking calls in response to his TV request for information on Beckert’s whereabouts.”
“Anything useful?”
“A caller said he saw a man earlier tonight in a gas station over near Bass River. The man was filling a couple of five-gallon gas cans in the back of a black Durango. The Durango plate number ended with the letters WRPD.”
“Did the caller identify himself?”
“No. He asked if there was a reward. She told him there wasn’t, and he hung up. Phone company says the call came from a prepaid.”
“Does Kline’s office have a recording of it?”
“No. The line they’re using bypasses their automatic system.”
“Too bad.” Gurney paused. “Bass River’s out by the reservoir, right?”
“Right. Other side of the mountain from the gun club. Heavily forested land. Not many roads.” Torres eyed Gurney’s expression. “Something about that bothering you?”
“I’m just thinking that if Beckert’s on the run, it’s surprising he’s still in the area.”
“Maybe he’s got a second cabin nobody knows about. In the woods somewhere, off the grid. Maybe that’s what the gas cans were for—a generator. What do you think?”
“I guess it’s possible.”
“You sound doubtful.”
“Driving his own vehicle with a distinctive plate number close to home seems like a stupid thing to do.”
“People make mistakes under pressure, right?”
“True,” said Gurney.
In fact, he thought with a twinge of anxiety, he might be doing that himself.
50
It was after midnight when Gurney got home from White River. He parked by the side door. The thought occurred to him, as it had done on many previous occasions, that it would make sense to add a garage to the house. It was something Madeleine had mentioned from time to time, and it was the sort of thing they could work on together. After the case was wrapped up he’d have to give the project some serious thought.
Before going into the house he stood for a while next to the Outback in the moonlight, inhaling the sweet, earthy spring air—an antidote to the odor of death he had experienced earlier. However, the nights were a lot chillier up in the hills around Walnut Crossing than down in White River, and it wasn’t long before a shiver persuaded him to go inside.
Despite feeling wired from the intense evening, he decided to lie down, close his eyes, and try to get some rest. Madeleine was asleep, but when he got into bed she woke up enough to murmur, “You’re home.”
“Yes.”
“Everything all right?”
“More or less.”
It took a moment for that to register.
“What’s the ‘less’ part?”
“The White River thing keeps getting crazier. How was your political action meeting?”
“Stupid. Tell you about it in the morning.”
“Okay. G’night.”
“G’night.”
“Love you.”
“Love you too.”
A minute later the soft rhythm of her breathing told him she was asleep.
As he lay staring out the open window at the shapes of the trees, just visible in the silvery moonlight, his thoughts centered on the relationship between Dell Beckert and Blaze Jackson. He wondered if she might have been the unnamed informant referred to more than once in the critical-situation-management team meetings. Did Beckert have something on her that forced her cooperation, or had the initiative been hers? Was the bag of money in the drawer a onetime transaction, or was it part of an ongoing arrangement? Was it a payment for value received, or money extorted in return for silence? Given Jackson’s physical attractiveness and reputed sexual appetite, might her connection to Beckert have included that element? Or was it purely a business relationship?
And what about the Rick Loomis connection? If Beckert and Turlock were behind the Poulter Street attempt on Loomis’s life, then presumably they were also behind the fatal attack in the hospital. Did Beckert and Jackson enlist Chalise Creel and show her how to drive that ice pick into the man’s brain stem?
The thought of Poulter Street reminded Gurney of a question he’d asked Torres to pursue: Had the real estate agent who’d arranged for the leases on the two sniper sites actually met with Jordan, whose name was on the leases, or had the transaction been handled by an intermediary?
Torres had told Gurney the information would be available as soon as the agent returned from vacation. Gurney’s eagerness to pursue the matter, along with the impossibility of doing so at two o’clock in the morning, kept him spinning what-if scenarios until he finally drifted into an uneasy sleep.
When he awoke at nine the next morning the sky was blue, and through the open windows he could hear Madeleine out mowing. His first thought was to get in touch with Acme Realty.
He called Mark Torres for the agent’s name, which had slipped his mind.
“Laura Conway,” said Torres. “I have a reminder on my phone to check with her this morning. I’m on my way into Kline’s office to brief him on the Jackson-Creel homicides. By the way, we’ve confirmed that Blaze and Chalise are sisters. And it seems that Chalise has a pretty extensive mental health history, which we’re trying to get access to. As for Laura Conway, if you want to talk to her yourself—”
“I do. Can you give me the number?”
Three minutes later, Laura Conway was telling him what he’d half expected to hear.
“It was all handled by Blaze Jackson. I believe she was Mr. Jordan’s business manager, or something like that. She chose the apartment on Bridge Street and the house over on Poulter.”
“But both of those leases were signed by Marcel Jordan?”
“That’s correct. As I remember, Ms. Jackson took the physical documents to him and brought them back to our office.”
“Were you aware of her prominent role in the Black Defense Alliance?”
“I have no interest in politics. I avoid watching the news. It’s too upsetting.”
“So you never met Marcel Jordan?”
“No.”
“Or spoke to him?”
“No.”
“Did he provide you with any financial references?”
“No.”
“You didn’t require assurances that he could afford those rentals?”
“We didn’t consider it necessary.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
“It’s not the normal thing. But neither was the arrangement.”
“Meaning?”
“Both rentals were paid for in advance. For the entire year. In cash.”
“Did that concern you?”
“Some people like cash transactions. I don’t question things like that.”
“Did it cross your mind that Mr. Jordan might not know that his name was on that lease?”
“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t he know?”
Gurney was sure the answer was that Jordan was being set up in a complex Beckert-Turlock conspiracy to frame him and his BDA associates, along with Cory Payne, for the murders of John Steele and Rick Loomis. So he wasn’t surprised to learn of the man’s potential ignorance of the lease. What got his attention was the presence of Blaze Jackson—with its suggestion of her involvement in the affair from the beginning.
He ended the call and stood for a minute at the window, gazing out at the row of blooming chokecherry trees along the side of the high pasture. He was wondering how extensively involved Blaze Jackson had been in the White River deaths and whether she had been the brains or the tool. As he was turning this over in his mind, his eye caught a movement in the sky above the trees. A red-tailed hawk was circling the edge of the field, searching no doubt for some smaller bird or furry creature to pierce with its talons, tear apart, and devour. Nature, he concluded for the hundredth time, for all its sweetness and blossoms and birdsong, was essentially a horror show.
His phone rang on the nightstand behind him. He turned away from the window and took the call. “Gurney here.”
“Hello, Dave. It’s Marv Gelter.”
“Marv. Good morning.”
“Good and busy is what it is. You’re quite the disrupter, my friend. Whole new political landscape out there.”
Gurney remained silent.
“No time to waste. Let me get to the point. You free for lunch?”
“That would depend on the agenda.”
“Of course it would! The agenda concerns your future. You just turned the world upside down, my friend. Time to take advantage of that. Time to take a look at the rest of your life.”
Gurney’s visceral dislike of Gelter was outweighed by his curiosity.
“Where do you want to meet?”
“The Blue Swan. Lockenberry. Twelve noon.”
By the time he was ready to leave, Madeleine’s mowing had taken her up around the high pasture i
nto one of the grassy trails through the pines. He left her a note with a brief explanation hoping he’d be back by three that afternoon. Then he got the address of the restaurant from the internet, put it into his GPS, and set out.
The immaculate village of Lockenberry, just a mile or so past the Gelters’ strange cubical house, was nestled in its own small valley where spring was further advanced than in the neighboring hills. Daffodils, jonquils, and apple blossoms were already giving way to a profusion of lilacs. The Blue Swan was located on a tranquil, shaded lane off the main street. An elegantly understated sign beside a bluestone path leading to the front door was all that distinguished it from the picture-book Colonial homes on either side of it.
Gurney was met in the cherrywood entry hall by a statuesque blonde with a faint Scandinavian accent.
“Welcome, Mr. Gurney. Mr. Gelter will be here shortly. May I show you to your table?”
He followed her along a carpeted hallway to a high-ceilinged room with a chandelier. The walls consisted of alternating panels of impressionist-style floral murals and gleaming mirrors. There was a single table in the center of the room—round, with a white linen tablecloth, two French provincial dining chairs, and two elaborate place settings. The statuesque blonde pulled out one of the chairs for him.
“May I get you something to drink, Mr. Gurney?”
“Plain water.”
Moments later, Marv Gelter strode into the room—concentrated energy and darting gaze belying the laid-back look of his country-squire tweeds. It was as though a Ralph Lauren weekend ensemble was being modeled by a large caffeinated rat.
“Dave! Glad you made it! Sorry to be late.” He sat across the table from Gurney, glancing back toward the hallway. “Lova, darling, where the hell are you?”
The Nordic beauty entered the room, bringing them two glasses on a silver tray—plain water for Gurney and a rosy-hued drink that looked like a Campari and soda for Gelter. She placed them on the table, stood back, and waited. Gelter took a quick swallow of his. Gurney wondered if he did anything slowly.
